LO! from the silent bosom of the nightThe fair young Morning lifts her beauteous head,And, shaking back her golden tresses, stepsUpon the rampart of the sleeping world,—The circling dew-enamelled horizon,—And there, with smiles of sweet expectancy,Amid the soft receding shadows, waitsThe coming of the glorious King of Day,The orient beams of whose effusive lightAlready tinge, with sweetly tinted rays,The cloud-capped summits of the eastern hills.The Earth, new wakened from her calm repose,Unfolds her treasures to the opening light,Rejoicing in the sweet prospective beamsThat shall unseal her casket of bright flowers,And from their cups exhale the sweet perfume,As tributes of her wealth returned above.All nature seems expanding with the senseOf thankful joy,—as upward proudly rollThe flaming chariot wheels of glittering light,Whose beams, in silent eloquence, proclaims,Behold! the Sun's imperial throne appears.
